


not quite like the movies

by zach_stone



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bad Flirting, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Holidays, M/M, Mistletoe, Piano, Post-Canon, morons to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21909670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zach_stone/pseuds/zach_stone
Summary: Eddie distractedly dumps sprinkles on one of the gluten free cookies and then, unable to contain himself, says, “So I’ve decided I’m finally going to make my move tonight. With Richie.”Ben’s whole face lights up. “Eddie, that’s great! You’re finally going to tell him how you feel?”Eddie’s nose scrunches. “Well… I mean, not exactlytellhim, in so many words…”Ben sighs and looks at Eddie pityingly. “Oh, Eddie,no.”--Or, Eddie tries to seduce Richie at their friends' holiday party. It goes about as well as expected.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 57
Kudos: 743





	not quite like the movies

**Author's Note:**

> richie and eddie share one brain cell, and in this fic, it's richie's turn to use it. all i can say is that this entire thing was inspired by watching my brother's piano recital and having to listen to 20 middle schoolers play jingle bells poorly on piano. 
> 
> shoutout to gillian for thinking this is funny enough that i had to finish it. i hope it lives up to the hype. enjoy!!!!!

Eddie has a long-standing guilty pleasure in the form of Hallmark movies. There’s just something about the way everything  _ works out _ in them, the easy formula to romance and a happier life that doesn’t seem to exist in reality. It’s comforting, alright, so sue him. Maybe he’s had one too many fantasies about being wooed in an embarrassingly cliché way, swept right off his feet and into a happily ever after while the camera slowly pans out through a snow-dusted window, framing a golden-glow ending. He’s aware that it’s embarrassing to still have these private fantasies at forty years old, but no one else has to know. 

After everything, after Derry and Neibolt and getting all his friends back, Eddie’s life was briefly an enormous fucking mess. He got a divorce and moved into an apartment by himself and scrambled to reassess everything he thought he understood about himself as a person. But it’s not all bad — he’s got people who really care about him now, with Beverly and Ben living in New York and having him over for dinner all the time, the rest of his friends a constant presence on his phone through texts and calls and video chats. 

And he’s got  _ Richie _ back, in particular, who Eddie has since remembered was the starring subject of many a rom-com fantasy in Eddie’s youth, before he left Derry and forgot everything and the leading man in his fantasies became more of a vague, tall, broad-shouldered dude. 

He’s sort of expecting something to actually come of it now, what with Eddie being divorced and Richie coming out to the Losers and then Eddie, a couple weeks later, sending an awkward  _ Not to steal Richie’s thunder, but I’m gay too  _ text message to the group. Every time he talks to Richie on the phone or through texts, he just keeps  _ waiting  _ for Richie to make a move. It’s not like Richie’s unaware that things are mutual, either — he’s just not  _ doing  _ anything about it. As weeks turn into months, Eddie starts to realize that maybe, if he wants his life to turn out like the picture-perfect Hallmark movies of his dreams, he’s not the one who gets wooed after all; maybe  _ he’s  _ the hunky leading man who has to do the wooing. Not that Eddie would ever, in a million years, call himself “hunky.”

He decides he’s going to make his move at Ben and Beverly’s Christmas party — or, as they keep insistently calling it, their Secular Winter Holiday Party, to be inclusive of Stan and Patty. Eddie shows up early the day of to help them set up, and he’s relegated to the kitchen to help Ben decorate a veritable mountain of sugar cookies.

“I can’t even eat these,” he grumbles, watching Ben artfully draw a snowflake design on one of the cookies with icing. He looks down at his own current cookie, which is supposed to be a Christmas tree. The green icing is layered on unevenly and he can’t get it to look nice no matter how much he smears it with a butter knife.

“We made a batch of gluten free ones for you, Eddie,” Ben says pleasantly, pointing to a small plate of cookies on the counter behind them. 

“Oh.” Eddie flushes, feeling pleased and a little embarrassed. “Thanks. Maybe I should just stick to decorating mine then.” 

Ben eyes Eddie’s small pile of haphazardly frosted cookies. “I think maybe that’s for the best,” he agrees. 

Eddie distractedly dumps sprinkles on one of the gluten free cookies and then, unable to contain himself, says, “So I’ve decided I’m finally going to make my move tonight. With Richie.”

Ben’s whole face lights up. “Eddie, that’s great! You’re finally going to tell him how you feel?”

Eddie’s nose scrunches. “Well… I mean, not  _ exactly  _ tell him, in so many words…” 

Ben sighs and looks at Eddie pityingly. “Oh, Eddie,  _ no.”  _

“What’s with the look? You don’t even know what I’m going to do yet!” Eddie exclaims, offended. “I have a  _ plan,  _ Ben.”

Ben sets down his piping bag and folds his hands together. “Okay, what’s your plan?”

Eddie’s plan involves the largely unused grand piano in Ben and Beverly’s front room, where the majority of the holiday party is going to take place before they move to the home theater to watch  _ It’s A Wonderful Life  _ later in the evening. Eddie played piano once, a long time ago — his mother had signed him up for lessons, and he’d had a recital when he was eleven. He figures he’ll sit at the piano and play a few songs until Richie gets interested and comes over, like he always does, pulled like a magnet into Eddie’s personal space. He’ll be impressed by Eddie’s musical ability, obviously, and then Eddie will offer to teach him how to play something. It’ll be a lot of sitting hip-to-hip, hands touching hands, the perfect buildup of sexual tension, and then — well, then Eddie’s hoping Richie will finally take a fucking hint and kiss him already. As far as he’s concerned, it’s just about foolproof.

When Eddie relays all of this to Ben, however, his friend seems less certain. “I don’t know, Eddie. When’s the last time you even played piano?”

Technically, Eddie played a piano in college. Once, at the singular house party his roommate dragged him to freshman year, Eddie had gotten just drunk enough to lose his inhibitions and played a very sloppy duet of Heart and Soul with a random frat dude on someone’s keyboard, before spending the rest of the night hiding in the bathroom, sitting in the tub and trying not to have a panic attack. Besides that, Eddie hasn’t played piano since sixth grade. 

“It’ll be fine,” he tells Ben. “It’s all muscle memory, anyway. Do you know how many times I had to practice the same fucking chords over and over when I was taking lessons? It’ll be like riding a bike, it all comes back to you.”

Ben looks unconvinced. “I just don’t get why you have to do something so elaborate. You already know he has feelings for you, too. Isn’t this all a bit… dramatic?”

“Okay, I don’t even want to hear it, Mr. January Embers,” Eddie retorts.

“First of all, I did that when I was thirteen, not forty,” Ben points out. Eddie’s ears redden, but he continues frowning, not about to admit defeat just yet. “And  _ second,”  _ Ben goes on, “that didn’t even  _ work.  _ Bev thought it was from Bill! Twice!”

“Well, I can guarantee that Richie’s not going to think  _ Bill  _ is in love with him,” Eddie scoffs. To his intense embarrassment, Ben’s expression melts into one that’s entirely too sappy for Eddie’s liking. 

“Aw, Eddie. You’re in love with him?” 

Eddie groans and hides his face in his hands. “Shut up.” Then, quieter, “yeah, obviously.” He scrubs his palms over his face before peering at Ben again. “That’s why it has to be, like, a grand gesture, you know? It’s  _ Richie,  _ man. He’s one walking grand gesture. I just want —” He hesitates, not sure if he wants to bare his soul quite this much to Ben, even though he  _ is  _ the one out of all their friends who’s most likely to get it. “It’s going to work,” he tells Ben. “I’ve thought this through, trust me.”

“Alright,” Ben says, lifting his hands in defeat. “Well, good luck, Eddie.” The unspoken  _ you’ll need it  _ is obvious in his tone, and Eddie rolls his eyes. He doesn’t need luck. He knows what he’s doing. 

Eddie intends to spend a few minutes re-familiarizing himself with the piano before the rest of the Losers arrive, but after he and Ben finish decorating the cookies, Bev ropes him into mixing the spiked eggnog and setting it up in the front room, and then she has him carrying out empty mugs, and by the time he’s completed a dozen other little tasks, the doorbell is buzzing and their friends are starting to pile into the house, one big clusterfuck of noise. 

Everyone’s gone  _ festive _ with their apparel, as per Ben and Beverly’s request. Eddie thought his red flannel shirt under a green cardigan was plenty festive, but the others seem to be really leaning into the “ugly sweater” motif. Stan has a blue sweater with a picture of a menorah and the words “We Last 8 Days” across the chest, which has Eddie raising his eyebrows and Stan shrugging. “Pat thought it was funny,” he says by way of explanation, hugging his wife to his side briefly before pulling Eddie in for a hug as well. 

But of course, unsurprisingly, Richie’s sweater takes the cake. Eddie’s just pulling back from Stan’s embrace when he hears something jingling, and turns to see Richie approaching him, arms spread in what could either be an invitation for a hug or a request for Eddie to look at Richie’s sweater. And Eddie’s looking, alright — Richie’s sweater says “Jingle My Bells,” and at the bottom of the hem are two actual jingle bells. Eddie meets Richie’s extremely self-satisfied gaze and glowers at him.

“There’s something deeply wrong with you,” Eddie tells him. 

“Aw, Eds, don’t worry, I think you look  _ very  _ cute in your grandpa sweater,” Richie says, reaching forward to pinch Eddie’s cheek. This is as close as Richie ever gets to flirting, and it makes Eddie absolutely insane — partly because it’s always wrapped up in a joke, and partly because it always still fucking  _ works.  _ His face reddens even as he ducks away from Richie’s hand. Richie is immediately distracted by Stan’s sweater, and he lets out a loud cackle of delight. 

After everyone’s finally finished greeting each other and hanging up their coats and scarves in the hall closet, they migrate to the kitchen to gorge on cookies. Eddie takes a moment alone with his little plate of gluten free cookies and has a very minor freakout about the fact that he hasn’t had a chance to practice the piano at  _ all,  _ which was not part of the plan. He picks distractedly at the sprinkles on one of the cookies until the telltale jingling of Richie’s approach makes him look up. 

Richie leans across the counter and snags one of the cookies off Eddie’s plate, one that Eddie had painstakingly (and unsuccessfully) attempted to make look like Santa. “What’ve we got here?” he says.

“Hey!” Eddie exclaims. “These are mine, asshole, I can’t eat the other ones.” 

Richie looks at the cookie and grins. “Eddie,  _ please  _ tell me you decorated these. This is just — wow. Art, really. Avant-garde, one might say.”

“Oh, bite me,” Eddie says, fighting back a laugh and snatching the cookie out of Richie’s hand. “Like you’d be able to do any better.”

“Hey, for all you know, I’ve got a secret expertise in baked goods decorating,” Richie says loftily. “I have  _ hidden depths,  _ Eddie.” 

“I  _ bet,”  _ Eddie says, just as dramatically. He leans in across the counter, close enough that he sees Richie’s throat bob nervously. Eddie’s lips twitch up. “What else you got, Tozier?” 

“Uh,” Richie says. He’s staring at Eddie’s mouth, and Eddie sort of hopes maybe it’ll just happen  _ now.  _ Not that he doesn’t want to follow through with his plan or anything, but he wouldn’t complain about Richie kissing him over a plate of Christmas cookies, either. That feels decidedly Hallmark. 

No such luck, though, because Richie just swallows again and drops his gaze to the cookie plate, grabbing a particularly unfortunate snowflake abomination of a cookie and changing the subject to tease Eddie again. 

When everyone heads into the front room, Eddie makes a beeline for the piano. There’s other music playing over Ben’s bluetooth speakers, so Eddie has to press lightly on the keys to keep the piano quiet, but that works just fine for him, because Eddie quickly discovers that playing piano is  _ not  _ like riding a bike at all. In his mental vision of all this, he’d been playing random songs in an enticing sort of way. In reality, he’s just trying desperately to remember simple chords.

What’s making it all the worse is that Richie doesn’t seem nearly as intrigued as Eddie was expecting. He’s been standing in the doorway between the front room and the theater room, nursing a glass of eggnog and making smalltalk with whoever walks by, but mostly just  _ standing  _ there. Eddie keeps cutting his eyes over to him from across the room, and at one point their gazes meet and they both make similar questioning faces. Eddie’s not about to abandon the piano just to go over and ask Richie why he’s acting like a fucking weirdo, though, so he just turns back to fumbling over the keys.

Finally, after Eddie’s had to chase off Bill and Mike both trying to wrangle him into some conversation or another, Richie jingles his way over at last. He sets his now-empty eggnog mug on the piano and says, “Tickling the ol’ ivories, huh? I can play too, you know.”

Eddie stares at him. He  _ didn’t  _ know Richie could play piano — he sees his grand plans crumbling before his very eyes. “Since fucking when?” 

“Here, I’ll demonstrate,” Richie says. And then he leans in and proceeds to play what Eddie can only assume is supposed to be “Chopsticks,” except he somehow manages not to hit a single correct note. He also bangs on the keys loudly enough that some of the other Losers look over at them. Eddie makes eye contact with Ben from across the room and shoots him a look that silently promises death if he even  _ thinks  _ about judging him. Ben presses his lips together, clearly hiding a smile. 

“Okay, okay, enough,” Eddie says, grabbing Richie’s wrists to still his hands. Richie is chuckling to himself as Eddie releases him. “The only impressive thing about that was how  _ bad  _ it was. You did that one hundred percent incorrectly. Like, I’m pretty sure babies can play that song. How did you manage to butcher it  _ that _ badly?” 

“I told you, Eds, I have secret skills,” Richie says. 

“I took lessons in middle school, do you remember that?” Eddie asks, trying to get things back on track. 

Richie’s face lights up at the memory. “Fuck yeah I remember, you were always complaining about how your teacher’s house smelled like baby powder. And then you wouldn’t let any of us come to your recital!” 

“Yeah, I didn’t need you bozos heckling me, my eleven-year-old self esteem was fragile enough,” Eddie says, snorting. “Anyway, if you want to  _ actually  _ play… I could teach you a song.”

Richie raises his eyebrows. “You still remember how?”

“Sure,” Eddie says. He’s only fifty percent lying at this point; he thinks he remembers most of the chords to the song he played for his recital, at least. Which, he’s realizing as he looks again at Richie’s sweater, is a deeply, unfortunately ironic choice.

“Okay,” Richie says, looking vaguely confused but always game to indulge Eddie in something weird. He sits down on the bench next to Eddie, leaving a little space between them. “What’re we playing, Eds?”

Eddie closes his eyes and says, slightly pained, “....Jingle Bells.” 

Richie laughs loudly, throwing his head back. His laugh is always so loud and full-bodied and obnoxious. It makes Eddie want to jump his bones. He scoots closer, so their thighs and hips touch, and Richie stops laughing. He looks at Eddie nervously again, his cheeks reddening. “Okay, uh, take it away, maestro,” he says. 

Eddie demonstrates the first chords. Then he puts his hands over Richie’s to correct his finger positions, leaning right into his personal space. He feels Richie’s breath hitch and smiles to himself.  _ Fuck off, Ben, this is  _ totally  _ going to work. _

It’s not exactly smooth sailing. Eddie has to stop every three chords or so to try and remember how to play, moving his hands down further on the piano to ghost over the keys and mutter to himself until he finds the right placement. Any chance he had of making Richie think he’s musically skilled goes out the window after about thirty seconds. It’s all worth it, though, for the way he gets to lean in so close and touch Richie’s hands a lot. At one point, Eddie has his head bent over their joined hands and then looks up, through his lashes, at Richie’s face. Richie isn’t even looking at their hands — he’s staring at Eddie, his face red and eyes wide. His mouth is parted slightly. When their gazes lock, Richie startles, clamping his mouth shut. 

“You’re supposed to be paying attention to my hands,” Eddie chides. “How else are you going to get the fingering right?”

Richie sputters out a laugh. “Hey, I’m always good at fingering,” he says.

Eddie grins. “Is that right?”  _ Now, maybe now,  _ he thinks, watching as Richie’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. Richie does not kiss him. Eddie sighs, breaking eye contact and tapping the back of Richie’s hand. “Okay, try it now.” 

It takes them a good twenty minutes to work through the song, during which point the rest of the Losers slowly trickle out of the room and head into the theater room instead. Ben catches Eddie’s eye again as he’s leaving, giving him a very obvious thumbs up. Luckily, Richie’s back is to the door, so he doesn’t see. 

When Richie plays the final chord of the song, the notes hang in the air, much like the thick blanket of sexual tension between them. Eddie can feel every point where their bodies are touching, Richie’s thigh pressing hot against his through both their pants. He feels like he’s about to go out of his mind. 

“You got it,” he says, very quietly. He looks up at Richie, who is already looking at him. This is the moment, in a movie, when the tension would break, the music would swell, and Richie would pull him into a kiss. It would be intense and frantic and well worth the absolute mess of a buildup Eddie’s created for them here. 

Instead of kissing him, Richie glances back at the doorway and says, “Well, I guess we should —”

“Oh, for  _ fuck’s  _ sake,” Eddie says. He grabs the sides of Richie’s face and hauls him down into a kiss so hard their teeth clack together. Richie makes a muffled noise of surprise, one of his hands coming down to slam on the piano keys, and the other one hangs onto Eddie’s bicep for dear life as he licks into Eddie’s mouth. Eddie’s hands slide up into Richie’s hair, tangling his fingers in it, and he tilts his head to slant their mouths together better, deepening the kiss. Richie’s mouth is warm and wet, and he’s kissing Eddie hungrily, and Eddie’s giving it as good as he’s getting. 

Eventually, they have to break for air, and their lips make a slick sound when they part. There’s a thread of saliva connecting their mouths, which is kind of disgusting and also kind of hot. Eddie reaches up to wipe it away. 

Richie stares at him, dazed, his lips kiss-swollen. “What,” he says hoarsely, “was  _ that?”  _

“What the hell do you mean,  _ what was that?”  _ Eddie repeats. Richie is still clinging to his arm, his fingers long and firm and pressing into the muscle. It’s very distracting, but Eddie still manages to squint suspiciously at him. “How did you not see that coming? What the fuck do you think I’ve been  _ doing  _ all night?”

“You — wait. Eddie, was this you trying to  _ seduce  _ me?” Richie asks. 

“Yes?” Eddie says, imitating Richie’s incredulous tone. “Why are you saying it like that?” 

“Eddie…” Richie bites his lip, and then starts fucking  _ laughing,  _ the bastard _.  _ “Dude. This was — this was a  _ choice.”  _

“Hey, fuck you, people like music! Playing an instrument is sexy!” Eddie protests, though he’s starting to crack now too, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. Literally none of this has gone to plan, but that’s par for the course when it comes to him and Richie. 

“Yeah, only if you can actually  _ play  _ it!” Richie says, cackling. His hand moves so he’s stroking up and down Eddie’s arm. “It also works better if it’s like, a love song or something. Fucking  _ Jingle Bells.  _ Why didn’t you just try to get me under the mistletoe like a normal adult person?”

“Oh, was that  _ your _ grand plan?” Eddie says sarcastically.

“Yes!” Richie exclaims, which stops Eddie up short. “Why do you think I was lurking in the doorway all fuckin’ night?” 

Eddie looks over at the doorway, and notices for the first time that there’s a sprig of mistletoe hanging above it. “…Oh,” he says sheepishly. “Well. Okay, whatever, my plan still totally worked on you.”

“Yeah, that’s because  _ anything  _ would’ve worked on me,” Richie says, rolling his eyes. “Because of my giant thing for you.” 

“If that’s the lead-up to a big dick joke, I’ll push you off this bench,” Eddie warns.

Richie beams at him. “It really wasn’t, but holy shit, this is why I love you.” As soon as he says it, his face goes all pink again, and he glances off to the side. “That’s, uh, my giant thing, by the way. My love for you.” 

Eddie softens, any lingering annoyance leaving him and being replaced by an overwhelming affection. Because he really does get it — it’s fucking terrifying, making a move. There’s a reason Eddie’s been trying to follow a cinematic script all evening. Being uncertain of the outcome is enough to make anyone freeze up. 

He taps Richie’s cheek gently until he makes eye contact again. “Yeah, I love you too, dumbass.”

“Really?”

Eddie sighs. “Yes,  _ really.  _ Jesus, my seduction really was that bad, huh?”

“I’m going to make fun of you for the rest of time,” Richie tells him seriously. “Like, I’m morally obligated to write a bit about this. You have to understand.” 

Eddie considers protesting, but he knows a lost cause when he sees one. Plus, he can’t deny Richie material  _ this  _ fucking good. He overshot the rom-com and landed straight into comedy. Reeling Richie in a little closer by the hand on his cheek, Eddie says, “I’ll allow it.” 

They’re very close to kissing again, and Eddie’s eyes are half-lidded, about to shut, when Bill’s cheerful voice says, “Hey, are you guys gonna come watch the —  _ oh.”  _

The two of them flinch apart, whirling around to look at Bill, who is already backing away with his hands raised in surrender. “Never mind!” he calls to them, grinning like a maniac. Eddie gives him a death glare. Richie is snickering again. 

“C’mon, Eds,” Richie says, hopping up from the bench so his sweater jingles obnoxiously. He holds out a hand. “Shall we?” 

Eddie lets Richie help him to his feet, and neither of them drop hands as they walk across the room. When they get to the doorway, though, Richie stops. He points up and waggles his eyebrows, but when he leans in, Eddie stops him with a hand pressed flat against his chest.

“Nuh-uh,” he says. “Do it like how you were planning. I want to see  _ your  _ seduction technique, wise guy.” 

Richie blinks at him, and when it becomes clear Eddie isn’t kidding, he nudges Eddie away from him and leans against the doorframe. “Okay, fine. Pretend you’re approaching me.” Eddie takes an exaggerated step back and then moves forward again. Richie points to the mistletoe again and says, “Uh-oh. You know what that means.”

_ “Uh-oh?”  _ Eddie repeats. “That was your big line? How is that literally any better than what I did? You have no sense of romance, I swear to —”

“Eddie,” Richie interrupts. He looks horribly fond. “Are you done? Not that I don’t love this, but I was kinda hoping I could kiss you again at some point.” 

Eddie’s mouth hangs open mid-rant, and then he closes it. “Go for it,” he says.

Richie steps forward. One hand rests at the juncture of Eddie’s neck and shoulder, and the other cradles the side of his face. He leans in, slow and deliberate, and presses his mouth to Eddie’s. This kiss is very different from their other one — this one is gentle and sweet. Eddie’s hands raise unconsciously to curl against Richie’s chest as he melts into the kiss.  _ This,  _ he thinks,  _ this  _ is the movie moment he’s been hoping for. 

It feels like slow motion when they part, and Eddie’s eyes flutter open again. Richie is smiling at him softly, his thumb brushing over the corner of Eddie’s mouth. Framed in the doorway, with the sounds of their friends and the movie trailing in from the other room, Eddie can almost feel that cinematic golden glow. Then Richie boops their noses together and laughs, and the spell breaks, but in a good way. This is better than any of the movies Eddie used to wish his life was like, because this is real, and it’s  _ Richie,  _ and it wouldn’t have been them if it wasn’t at least a little bit of a chaotic mess. 

“How was that?” Richie asks. “Do I win?”

“It’s not a competition, and also  _ no,  _ asshole,” Eddie says, swatting him. “But that was… pretty good. Some points were made.” 

Richie smiles and kisses him on the forehead. “I’ll take it.” 

And then he puts his arm around Eddie, hugging him close to his side, and the two of them head into the other room to join their friends. 

**Author's Note:**

> happy holidays, y'all. hit me up on twitter @hermanngottiieb if u want, and leave me a comment! feedback fuels me.


End file.
